The Twisting

by Laurel Wanrow

  Old Terry pointed at him. “I’ve told you to stay out of it. Your fears sway your thinking. And yes, I remember your warning that she’s under Constance Gere’s protection. Nothing I’m asking violates what’s considered a fair trade.”

  Daeryn glanced at Rivley. True, he’d always known Riv hated the dense forest stands and would never enter a burrow, but he usually managed to hide his aversion. They were both overtired, giving in to ’cambire outbursts. Or else these tunnels were truly awful. But Annmar had liked them. Now he was confused. Daeryn rubbed a knuckle to his brow. What would help Annmar to decide how to deal with this woman? And in a flash, the talk he’d had with Riv just hours ago about their gildan lesson echoed through his head: Honestly work together to restore yourselves and your pack.

  Daeryn took a step closer. “In fairness to Annmar, you ought to be completely honest and tell her how you travel to those tunnels.”

  “You do your Elders’ training proud in recognizing the old ways. Very well.” Old Terry turned to Annmar. “I practice what some call the wild ways. From those ancient nature traditions, I hold dear a rarity: the dirt supporting our lives.” She chuckled. “Some say I am dirt, and I take that as a compliment. My spirit is one with the underground and can be there at will.”

  Annmar licked her lips. “So if you wish to be with the…element you love, you can be?”

  “Exactly.” The hedge-rider smiled. “Air”—she gestured at Rivley—“fire and water block me. But earth is my element, my home, and I travel it freely. That doesn’t mean, however, that I can find what I want there. That’s where your talents would be of use. Your service would be to lead me on a number of trips, lasting—”

  “How many trips?” Mary Clare’s chin rose. “My pa says deals have to be specific.”

  Old Terry cocked a brow. “He’s trained you well. Too well.” She turned to Annmar. “Twenty-four should be adequate.”

  Annmar’s eyes narrowed. “With a day off a week, that’s a month of workdays. How about three weeks’ worth?”

  Why she put an emphasis on three, Daeryn didn’t know, but Old Terry agreed.

  “Eighteen days,” she said. “As I was saying, trips last a quarter hour to several hours, depending on how quickly you master your skills and find what I need. When I have enough from a trip, we’ll be done for the day and you go home.”

  “What do you need?” Annmar asked. “I should know. I won’t be party to, er, outright theft.”

  Old Terry put a hand into her pocket and withdrew something.

  Daeryn leaned in with the others, but the old lady held only a fistful of powdery blue-gray dirt.

  “Clay?” Rivley said. “You want clay for your doodems?”

  “Don’t you go saying I can get argilla anywhere. This isn’t surface soil. It’s richer in ways it needs to be.”

  Argilla. Daeryn met Rivley’s gaze. He hadn’t given the doodem clay any special thought, having grown up with a plentiful supply in Rockbridge. But now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen sources of the fine gray dirt on Wellspring property or the surrounding land. And he did plenty of digging and burrow roaming while out.

  “Doesn’t someone own the land you’re taking it from?” Mary Clare asked.

  “Not that deep. Where I go, no Basin dweller lays claim to the land.”

  “Could I come to any harm while with you?” Annmar asked.

  Old Terry shrugged. “Those ancient tunnels won’t collapse, if that’s what you’re asking. The rest”—she shrugged—“depends on the path chosen. If danger lurks, I’ll steer us away like that.” She snapped her fingers. “I won’t lose you, if that’s your concern.” She grinned. “You are quite valuable to me as a guide.”

  That rubbed Daeryn’s fur wrong, and in front of him, Annmar’s shoulders tightened.

  But instead of balking, she asked, “Can my friends accompany me?”

  “Whoever, whatever you want.” Old Terry rolled her eyes. “All I require is you to lead me.”

  “How can I guide you in a place I’ve never been?”

  “You’re a natural, from your birthright. In fact”—a glint appeared in the lady’s eye—“just what you asked, right, my pet?” Again, she crossed her hands around her ample belly. “I can rectify your ignorance while you guide me. At the end of our agreement, I’ll show you where to search for your sire.” She shrugged one shoulder. “If that’s of any interest to you.”

  “Come on now,” Daeryn said. “That’s a bribe.”

  Annmar spun around, mouth opening—

  “I want that clay as much as she wants information.” Old Terry nodded sagely. “I need a guide to get to it, and one hasn’t been available for a long time. And you’re also receiving the proper doodem. Now. When you need it.” She gave him that smug smile. “Is this acceptable to you?”

  Annmar loosed her arm from Mary Clare’s and took a step forward with her arms folded. “What do you mean asking him? I’m the one who’ll be guiding you.”

  “You obviously want their approval. Do you need these—this doodem for your machine, or not?”

  This time Annmar didn’t so much as glance back. “Yes, I’ll be your guide.”

  Daeryn pressed his lips closed. Someone vying for mate, or even pack membership, would never make a decision like this without seeking alpha approval. Annmar wasn’t proper pack material, not by Rockbridge standards. Her direct gaze, her straight back, the set of her shoulders…nothing about Annmar was submissive.

  But he liked what he saw.

  “When can you start?” Old Terry asked.

  “Not until the pest issue is resolved and the harvest is in,” she said firmly. “But I’ll do it by the end of the year.”

  Old Terry nodded. “Before the solstice. Acceptable.” She put out a hand. “Come along, then. Let’s go make the arrangement final.”

  Mary Clare slipped her arm back through Annmar’s. “We’re going, too.”

  Great Creator, the observant Mary Clare was a step ahead of him. He might have underestimated her. Daeryn crowded closer, and after a glance between the old woman and the redhead, Rivley followed.

  Old Terry sighed. “Bring them along if you must. Link arms.”

  They did, and Annmar grasped the lady’s extended hand. Daeryn kept his eyes open to watch. They didn’t move, but instantly all five of them stood in a rough underground passage carved through soil and winding among jutting rocks. His body tensed in preparation, his hackles rose. Next to him, Rivley stiffened, his fear as palpable as Mary Clare’s. She shifted closer, muttering something about the dark. Of course, neither of them can see.

  Daeryn studied the corridor in both directions, the rich scent of the earth filling his nostrils. Nothing of danger lurked nearby. And neither was it completely dark. Luminescent nodules in the walls cast enough light that the others would soon be able to see that for themselves, but he bent toward Mary Clare. “The tunnel is empty,” he murmured.

  Annmar inhaled deeply and sighed in a satisfied way. Daeryn’s nose twitched at her relaxed, buoyant fragrance—and then he backed up. He had to stay alert.

  “Like it, don’t you, my pet?” Old Terry said.

  “It’s like…like drinking a well-blended tea.” She moved along the closest wall, sniffing again and running her hands over the dirt and rocks. “The aroma invigorates me.”

  Great Creator, she sounded so wistful...happy even, picking at the dirt and studying pebbles she plucked from it. How can she see them? He’d lose her through these trips, he knew it, unless he found a way to make aboveground life more appealing. Annmar’s element might indeed be earth, like the hedge-rider’s…but wouldn’t it be a polecat’s, too? He’d never given the ground much thought. Roaming tunnels had always been a part of his life—particularly his life with Sylvan—like soaring for hours was Rivley’s.

  Mary Clare scrunched her nose. “Stimulating, yes,” she muttered, “but for making me ready to run.” She frowned and glanced at Rivley. He stood apart from the
m, his arms twitching like he was about to flap them. She hesitated, the frown deepening. She stepped his way, then stopped and turned back to Daeryn.

  Damn, their row was serious if Mary Clare wasn’t going to Riv for mutual comfort. He dipped his chin toward Annmar. “Take your cues from her. She’s in her element down here.”

  Mary Clare nodded and stepped after Annmar as Old Terry drew her to a different spot along the wall.

  “You see it, pet?” The hedge-rider gestured to a tangle of roots edging the curved surface of a worn rock. She stroked the surface, which, except for one duller, pockmarked edge, was shiny. Crystalline bits reflected the dim light and sparkled.

  Annmar nodded. “I do.”

  “What is it?” Mary Clare said. “Tell us what you see.”

  “Blue threads encircle that rock, pulsing with a most vibrant light. The surrounding wall flickers like glowworms.” She sighed. “It’s beautiful. I wish you all could see it.”

  The threads. That explained her ability to see here, but Daeryn didn’t like the way she sounded mesmerized. He edged closer to her.

  “They like this type of rock,” Old Terry said. “Touch it and make your pledge.”

  Annmar put her hand to the rock. “I will serve as guide to Old Terry for eighteen days.”

  The old lady pressed her hand to the stone and cleared her throat. “I accept the service of Ann Marie Masterson in exchange for doodems and training I provide her. Bound together this day.”

  Annmar gasped and yanked her arm, but her hand didn’t come free, as if something held it to the shiny rock.

  Daeryn leaped forward and grasped her wrist, but it wouldn’t move. The roots flowed across both Annmar’s hands as she tugged one with the other. Polecat traits rushed through his human form, refining his sight, furring his soft skin and sharpening his nails. He clawed at the roots, breaking most, but as fast as he did, more snaked forward and wrapped her arm. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted at Old Terry. “Riv! Get her away from the wall.”

  Rivley shoved his way between them and yanked at the old lady’s arm, but he couldn’t remove it any more than Daeryn could Annmar’s. Attacking the roots was futile—and that wasn’t all that had hold of her. Even with his full nocturnal eyesight, whatever else bound her evaded him. With Rivley sputtering avian nonsense and Mary Clare crying and clinging to Annmar as she twisted this way and that, Daeryn reached the edge of holding his human form—but his polecat senses screamed a ’cambire couldn’t compete with this kind of bewitchment.

  Sucking a breath, Daeryn shook off the nails, fur and eyesight. He wrapped one arm around Annmar’s waist and grabbed Old Terry’s shoulder with the other. “Make it let her go.”

  She batted at him with one hand. “You overprotective buck, can’t you see I’m fastened just as tight? Pet, repeat, ‘Bound together this day,’ and it will release us.”

  Wide-eyed, Annmar gasped out, “Bound together this day.” Her hand flew free from the rock. They stumbled back, and Daeryn caught her.

  “Very good, my pet.” Old Terry brushed her hands together, and they were once more in her booth, the sounds of the Market crowd just beyond.

  He shot a quick check around. Yes, all four of them returned with her, so crowded into the booth that Mary Clare was wedged between Old Terry and Rivley, who had one completely feathered arm around the redhead. Quickly, he dropped his limb and crossed his arms.

  Safety verified, Daeryn pulled Annmar outside. She worried at her wrist, though he could see nothing on it, or the hedge-rider’s. He lifted her arm to inspect it in the daylight. Nothing, not even a red mark.

  “Something’s there, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Annmar nodded. “A luminated thread. Nothing that hurts, just…it’s glowing fairly bright.”

  “A pretty reminder,” Old Terry said. “Call upon me when you are ready to begin our trips. Go now. You have what you came for, and I’m happy with my promised payment.”

  Mary Clare wrested Annmar from Daeryn and marched her down the street. He followed with Rivley. It wasn’t until they left town that Daeryn realized Rivley was still shaking, though with his arms crossed he almost had it hidden. With clear blue sky above, his fear of confined spaces should have faded…

  Daeryn knocked his arm. “We’re well out of those tunnels. Why are you still bothered?”

  “I-I’m tired.” A shiver passed over him. “Delayed reaction. Horrible night and no sleep to top it off. I need some coffee.”

  “Or Master Brightwell’s home brew.” After a few more paces, he said, “If you’re having coffee, so will I. Forget going back to sleep. We’ll go out to the Harvester and see to the installation of the doodem first.”

  “Good thing none of this troubled you,” Rivley muttered.

  “Actually, I hated how Old Terry kept calling Annmar my pet.”

  Rivley jerked his head, swallowing hard.

  Great Creator. Riv had never kept his fear a secret, but they’d never been bespelled underground with no apparent way out before either. There must be normal ways in and out of a passage a person could stand in. The dirt had to go somewhere.

  Well, Rivley wouldn’t be going down there again. Daeryn eyed the girls ahead. Most likely Annmar would ask Mary Clare, though the type of protection another human could offer was limited. After the pests were eliminated and the harvest in, Annmar had promised the hedge-rider. That gave him time to offer his services.

  Whispering together, the girls strode up the hill to Wellspring faster than he’d thought Knack girls could move, compared to ’cambire ones, of course. Daeryn lifted his chin toward the lengthening distance between them. “We’re failing as guards.”

  “I-I’d be no help anyway.” Rivley stopped. “Can you take my clothes?” He peeled off his shirt. “I have to-to pull myself together before starting the Harvester.” He stripped and shifted, stuttering between forms, before shaking his wings and flapping upward. The sparrowhawk cut across the cemetery toward the orchard.

  Start the Harvester? Daeryn groaned to himself. Installing a new doodem wouldn’t instantly fix it, would it? True, he didn’t know much about mechanics, but the damned thing had killed Henry. It’d need watching—something Rivley was certainly not capable of now, and Master Brightwell was away for the day.

  chapter TWENTY-SIX

  Annmar knelt under Patrice’s tree once more and scooped a shallow hole for the badger. Just as she opened her sketchbook, Rivley dropped to his knees beside her. He looked awful, hair in feathered tufts and arms wrapped around his lean frame. Why, his shirttails were hanging out. She’d never seen him so disheveled.

  She glanced to where Daeryn had stood moments ago, but he was striding to the farmhouse. Mary Clare nodded for her to begin, so she turned back and read the blessing with Rivley twitching at her side. At the spot to add her own intentions, she whispered, “For Henry, please fill this fighting badger with the strength of the land he loved.”

  “Nice prayer,” Rivley said evenly. “You’re as attuned as the hedge-rider said.”

  Yet when she handed him the badger leaping with blue filaments, he moved in and out of his hawk form like an unsteady pendulum. He didn’t improve during the walk to the Harvester, so she pulled Mary Clare aside. “Rivley looks strange—stranger than usual—through my Knack. Like he’s confused or upset.”

  Mary Clare bit her lip. “I didn’t know. I’ve kept my Knack closed around him. That’s not like Rivley, but then what happened to Henry has upset everyone. Do you think it’s safe to let him run the Harvester?”

  “No,” Annmar whispered as Rivley slid the doodem into the waiting canister. “Shall I stop him, or will you?” But just as the words were spoken, Daeryn appeared on the rise of the farm road with Mistress Gere and James.

  Rivley saw them, too, but strode to the Harvester and dropped the cylinder into the oil reservoir. By the time he’d stepped to the control panel, the others had arrived, Mistress Gere in the lead.

  Mary Clare m
uttered, “Uh oh,” and pulled Annmar back.

  Rivley threw a steely look their way, but his frown dissolved when Mistress Gere laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he muttered to the ground and turned aside. James blocked his path to the Harvester. Mistress Gere asked again. This time Rivley tucked his shaking hands into his armpits and glared at Daeryn.

  “Rivley?” Mistress Gere waited until he looked up at her. “Can you operate this machine safely?”

  He compressed his lips briefly, then shook his head.

  “Come up to the house and see Miriam,” she said, her voice softer.

  Rivley glanced at Annmar, then, planting his feet in a wide stance, said to Mistress Gere, “After the oil circulates. The engine can run without engaging anything else. One of you start it up and let me listen.”

  James opened and closed the valves, firing up the steam engine. At first it sputtered, in the same coarse brrupt, brrupt, brrupt of a day ago. Annmar called up her Knack. The machine trembled once, released a cloud of steam and settled into its humming. Yet nothing glowed from inside it.

  Should she delay her trip to Derby? Or bring the other two Harvesters back and hope Rivley had gotten this one safely working? She leaned toward Mary Clare’s ear. “To have time at Miss Lacey’s and still make the train, I have to leave.”

  “Go,” Mary Clare hissed. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Rivley was watching them, one brow raised. She shook her head. His face fell. She turned and began walking. She’d just have to trust the doodem would work. Perhaps when Rivley felt better he’d clean the engine again, adjust it, or…something.

  Several steps off, a pop erupted from the Harvester. Annmar whirled. The valves continued clicking, but in a more even rhythm. She angled her head to listen and looked through her Knack.

  A faint blue light shone from deep between the engine parts. Then one thread slid along the new rod Rivley had replaced. Another joined it, and another, until they luminated the pumping length of metal.

  She ran back and clasped Rivley’s slumped shoulder. He looked up, startled. She gestured toward the Harvester and the lines of pulsing light spreading from the joint of the new rod. “It’s working.”